


From Fringes to Contact

by bookwormally



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10581345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormally/pseuds/bookwormally
Summary: Chirrut and Baze know each other, but they don't really know each other. What's a regular face in the crowd before you're introduced?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapoeysap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapoeysap/gifts).



It’s nothing the first time. It only sticks out later, much, much later when the whole string is traced back and considered worth remembering. Even then, it’s only the _start_ and not even a very spectacular one.

-

As children, they both take classes in defense. Baze’s is after Chirrut’s. They never would have noticed each other if it wasn’t for Chirrut’s headstrong need to push further. He stays after his class one day, asking the instructor with all the pride and stubbornness of a nine year old to be moved up to the next class.

Baze, at ten, only notices because the kid is loud. He glares toward the small shape in front of his instructor, waiting for them to be shooed out. At ten, a year is all the difference in maturity. Nine is so young and childish. The kid and Baze does so think of him as a kid, is told that he will have to wait for the next tests and sent out. “Finally,” Baze huffs.

The kid hears him and sticks his tongue out before marching out. _Jerk,_ Chirrut thinks.

Chirrut moves up after he proves himself at the tests, but Baze moves up too. They miss each other and there are no run in’s between classes, constantly leaping forward at the same pace. It is years before there is a next time.

-

Seventeen years old and responsible, Baze takes a part-time job to earn money for anything that he wishes to buy for himself. Not for college, no, he’s pursuing trade school, but he does want things and would never want to burden his family. He’s capable; he can finance his own selfish purchases. Selfish purchases being bringing dinner home on the nights his mother has worked all day so she won’t try to cook and nice shampoo for his hair, growing long and needing proper care.

The job itself is boring. A hardware store isn’t exactly thrilling and honestly, he gets a headache from every puffed up person who comes in thinking they know more than him because they watched a couple TV shows about deck building. It pays well enough and Baze will admit that maybe he’s a bit better at slipping away to find something else to do besides help customers than he should be. He’s just not a people person.

He hears things though, snippets of conversations through the shelves and down long, open aisles. Everything echoes in the warehouse, voices like strange ghosts who just want to know about their hard versus soft woods or what exactly they need to fix their dripping faucet. Sometimes it is other conversations entirely, couples so excited about some new home repair project, the absolute exhaustion of later weeks not having come yet. People full of dreams that their hands can make a reality.

Sometimes, he hears of someone just desperately trying to help a family member through a drastic change.

“Maybe a ramp, just to be safe.”

“I can still pick my feet up fine. The stairs are easy.” “

Everything is so cramped at home. We should do something to make bigger paths for you.”

“As long as you’re not leaving things in the middle of the floor, I’ll be fine.”

Baze can practically hear the eye roll. Whoever they are, the older voice sounds worried while the younger completely over it. He tries not to listen further, totally focused on restocking this shelf and hoping they don’t look for help.

After a couple minutes, their footsteps move further down the aisle, away from him and he sighs in relief. Another forced interaction avoided. He can’t help, but glance at the end of the aisle. It’s nothing really, an older man not too different from Baze’s father with his arm around a teenager. The only thing of note is the bandages wrapped around the teenager’s eyes. Baze frowns and looks back at the shelf. It’s none of business, but he feels sympathy anyway.

He’s almost forgotten about it by the end of the day.

-

The next time sticks more in Chirrut’s memory than Baze’s. Chirrut finds it hilarious since for all intents and purposes, it only happened because of Baze.

Chirrut has almost gotten used to the loss of his sight. He navigates quite well now, and is much better at moving around people than people are at moving around him. He can identify someone by their footsteps and the way they tend to breathe. He misses colors, the bright shades of flowers and the cool blues and greens of water. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to those being out of his reach.

The timber of voices, deep or soft or gentle has its own sort of beauty that he’s come to learn so much more of. People watching has become much more like listening to music. He hears so many amazing things when he’s sitting outside one of the university’s cafes. People always think he’s so busy trying to not fall over from being blind or something that they think he can’t hear them. It’s amazing how easy it is to smack someone “accidentally” in the shins for their muttering about how sad it is to see him.

Much better are the people who just go about their lives. He hears of relationships forming and breaking apart, the stresses of studies that are almost relatable if he didn’t find his classes almost too easy, and every hobby under the sun. The framing of photographs, the mixing of colors in paints, the shaping of clay and wood and any materials a person can think of are all fascinating to hear about. But it’s the oh so rare opportunity when the engineering students drop by the café that he really listens.

They design things, build them, and while Chirrut can appreciate art, he usually can’t touch it. Things that are built are made to be handled. He loves listening to them talk about their projects in constantly worn out tones and imagine what the final result will be like. They talk of materials used and he can call to mind the feeling of each under his fingers. Those that are unfamiliar make him itch to find a sample and discover it. He’s always listening for them to be come in.

“I just can’t get it to work.”

“It works fine to me. My ears hurt from the beeping.”

Chirrut arches an eyebrow as he hears two half-familiar voices approaching. He knows he’s heard the deep one before. They’re a person of few words, but every time they do speak, it’s something good. He happily remembers the rumbling “duct tape seals everything; try it on your lips” from two weeks ago. He’s mentally dubbed them ‘stoneface’ because he’s sure every wonderful line is delivered with no twitch or giveaway of the dry humor.

“It’s supposed to do more than beep. It needs a better spatial area scan…” Stoneface is mumbling to himself and then the café bell jingles as they go inside. He sighs. They’ll probably sit inside, worried about the threat of rain that should be here anytime. A shame, he would have liked to hear more about this device.

He finishes his drink and stands up, gathering his bag and cane to be on his way. He’s got practice and homework that does need doing. He turns, stepping away from his chair, and someone immediately smacks into him. He drops his empty cup and yelps. His nose got crushed into whoever it was. They have a very hard shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry.” They bend down as Chirrut rubs his nose and he can hear them gather the empty cup. “Sorry about that.” Chirrut recognizes that gruff tone and smiles. Stoneface is quick and silent when he wants to be.

“Quite alright,” Chirrut replies. “Though in the future, I’d tried to watch out better. You never know when the other person can’t.” He smiles wider, being a shit.

Stoneface shifts his weight. “Right…I’ll toss this out for you. Sorry again.” And then he’s moving away, taking Chirrut’s trash with him.

Chirrut sighs and rubs his nose again before he leaves. Stoneface must be pretty tall for his nose to have hit his shoulder.

-

There’s this blind asshole always around campus. Baze doesn’t know him, but he’s definitely heard about him. Apparently he’s the type to always speak up, no matter what problems may result. He’s also heard that this same asshole used to get in fights and has definitely kicked somebody’s ass on campus. Nobody can ever decide who. Most people don’t care who. They just want some impressive story to imagine of a blind guy kicking ass like this is some action movie.

It makes Baze roll his eyes. He doubts the guy actually kicked anyone’s ass. It’s probably just that he speaks up so people _want_ him to be able to back it up physically. Either way, it’s not his fucking problem. The blind asshole isn’t an engineering major; Baze never sees him and will never share classes. It’s just gossip. It won’t ever be something he has to deal with.

Until, quite suddenly, it is.

Baze doesn’t worry about leaving the lab late. He’s a large man, he looks intimidating, and he knows how to defend himself. He worries more about others who have to leave late, volunteering all the time to walk people to their cars in the lot. There are lights, but he worries and would rather be there as insurance. It never crosses his mind to worry about himself on the longer walk from the lab back to his apartment.

Later, he blames finals week. Working himself to exhaustion over trying to figure out the most important project of the semester would make anyone make mistakes. Really, it’s not even a _mistake_ , more of a misstep. It would have been so easily corrected even without interference.

This is usually when Chirrut interrupts the story to argue that Baze would not have been fine on his own in-fact. He probably would have been dead.

Baze always grumbles about dramatics and nudges him back, their fingers still interlaced so the distance is minimal. He gets back to the story for whoever has been so blessed as to hear it.

It’s finals week, he’s left the lab late and is on his way back to his apartment. He’s got several pieces tucked under his arm and even more in his bag. In his hand is his calculator, running equations even as he walks. He turns, path familiar but mind distracted, down the wrong street. He turns right into trouble.

A group of thieves, right in the middle of stealing a car all look up at him in surprise. Baze looks up and glares back. His hands are full, his face intimidating, and for all they know he could be an off-duty cop. Weapons come out and Baze is already groaning. What will this make him lose time on? What will be broken in this stupid scuffle?

Two of them jump at him and he drops his things with a clatter. Maybe it’ll be enough to make someone call the cops. He ducks the one with a heavy looking pipe, questioning if he’s actually awake or having a very vivid dream. People don’t actually use pipes for weapons anymore, right? The other swings a fist and he grabs their wrist, using their momentum to pull them past him and onto the ground.

The one with the pipe swings for his middle and Baze can’t get turned around in time to stop it from knocking the air out of him. It doesn’t break anything at least, but he goes to his knees. They lift it to bash his head in, an unconscious or killing blow, who can guess how far they’ll take it once he’s out?

“A man can’t even take a walk without running into trouble? You should all stop and appreciate the stars instead.” The voice is so calm, cheerful, and clashes completely with the situation. It works very well at stopping everyone in their tracks.

Baze isn’t going to waste the opportunity. He slams his hand into the thief with the pipe’s stomach, knocking them back on their ass. He follows, wrestling the pipe away before they can use it again. Whoever has come upon the scene has joined in; Baze hears several shouts of pain that are not caused by him.

Things are a bit blurry, moving quickly, and Baze really only has time to react to the other car thief trying to get at him. The asshole has a knife and Baze is not going to close enough to let him use it. It’s a dance, him dodging swipes of the knife and moving back out of reach as the thief lunges and jumps at him. It probably looks ridiculous, nothing like the coordinated fights in the movies. People never quite get the true desperation of fights right in the movies.

If Baze could just get the knife away then this would all be over, he thinks. He’s eyeing it, debating how best to disarm when the thief surprises him, throwing the knife at him in an arch that speaks to how much they must have practiced the stupid move for fun. Baze throws his arms up, much more willing to take a stab there then in his face, neck, or torso.

The knife doesn’t reach him, a hand coming out of nowhere to bat it aside and to the ground. The thief and Baze just stare and the man between them smiles and leans on his white cane. “That wasn’t very polite. Now you’ve lost your knife.”

The thief turns and runs, their friends scrambling off the ground and following in various levels of limps. They’re all hurt in some way and Baze can’t claim to have done half the damage. He looks down slightly at the other man again and meets pale blue eyes that definitely can’t see him back.

Baze is breathing hard and drops his arms slowly. He honestly has no idea what to say. “…I can’t believe a blind man just saved my ass,” pops out.

The man laughs. “It’s alright. I won’t tell any of your friends. The police should be called though.”

“Right…” Baze rubs his chest, heart pounding with the adrenaline and fear. “Thank you… What’s your name?” The blind asshole just saved his life and Baze would swear he’s seen him before, somewhere not here on campus.

“Me? I’m Chirrut Îmwe. You’re an engineering student, aren’t you?” He offers a hand.

Baze takes it and despite the rather minimal difference in their heights, his hand wraps easily around Chirrut’s. “Baze Malbus. How’d you know?”

“I’ve heard you at the café. You have a delightful sense of humor. I’m glad to meet you properly, though I wouldn’t have guessed at something like this.” Chirrut leans against the not-stolen car. “I was imagining something much more common, though this will be a much more fun story to tell.”

Baze rolls his eyes. A fun story to tell, like there’s going to be so many opportunities in the future. “Sure,” he says flatly. “I’m calling the police now.”

“The first to hear of our grand tale, but certainly not the last.”

Baze just looks at Chirrut and something in him, deep and not yet unearthed, agrees.


End file.
